


dots and lines

by wordquaff



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordquaff/pseuds/wordquaff
Summary: a story told in tattoos and ten parts





	dots and lines

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to try something a little more stream of consciousness, and not so narratively based! Ray's tough for me to write, so this is some practice.  
> (also I think Jax is the only one who we see with tattoos, but eh, whatever LOL)

 The first time Ray ever saw a tattoo was in a grocery store.

 He was maybe six years old, in the dairy aisle and a tall woman in shiny black shoes looked through the shredded cheeses. His mom had always told him it was rude to stare at strangers, but he just couldn’t pull his gaze away, and besides his mom was busy calming Sydney down from a tantrum in the candy aisle so she couldn’t stop him.

 The lady was dressed head to to toe in black, spikes on the shoulders and safety pins through her ear holes, and a sleeveless metal shirt across her chest. He noticed a large splotch of black smudges on her arm, going all the way down to her wrist, like someone drew a whole mural with a sharpie. She stood tall and confident, with an assurance six-year-old Ray had never seen another person have.

 The decision of declaring her _the coolest lady he’d ever seen_ was an easy one.

 After a moment of deliberation, he decided that he should tell her, so he tugged on her vest to get her attention, “I like your pictures,” he had whispered like he was sharing a secret.

 She had laughed kindly, ruffled his hair, and said “Thanks, little man.”

 

○•○•○

 

 Kendra had had countless tattoos over her lifetimes.

 Symbols with meanings too involved to explain, words in languages history forgot, names of love ones that Kendra never knew. She’d catch glimpses of them sometimes, always scribble them down if she remembered, though Ray never pointed out she was no artist.

 It was like a reset button, she had said once, every lifetime made her body a canvas, allowed for a little bit of freedom. There were a few repeats over the centuries— _only so many ways to skin a cat._ A few of Kendra’s one tattoos were legacies so to speak— a hawk on her calf, a constellation along her ribs. College Kendra had gotten them while drunk and never really knew what motivated them, though she admitted a little bitterly she figured it out now.

 She mentioned once that her favorites were her shoulders. They looked like a map, thin lines in circles around the bones down her bicep. She’d gotten them only a little before they’d left for the mission, only a month after Carter had found her.

 Ray had noticed them a few weeks on the ship but didn’t ask about them until after they became friendly. Fingerprints, she had told him, her own. Turns out, they were the only physical thing that changed between lifetimes— the only thing on her body that was only her own.

 “I’m the first Kendra to have these,” she ran her hands across her shoulders, smiling, “I know that for sure,”

 

○•○•○

 

 Ray had gotten his first and only tattoo in college.

 Truthfully, he had never planned on one himself. Nothing about the process particularly appealed to him, and there weren’t a lot of engineering jobs that let employees have visible tattoos which sort of defeated the purposed for him.

 The act was born out of desperation— second semester of his last year of undergrad, he’d been _murdering_ himself to try to memorize the Hamilton takes on the Schrodinger equations and he just couldn’t get it. It was the one thing he was worried about for his GRE and his roommate joked he get it tattooed, because they couldn’t ask him to cover his _skin._ He remembers laughing the suggestion off, but he _doesn’t_ remember getting it but he woke up the day before the test with a saran wrapped thigh and a post it note on his mirror to wear shorts.

 He didn’t regret it, mostly because he doesn’t think about it all that much. The Waverider was always cold so he was always wearing pants, he honestly rarely saw it. When he did, well, it wasn’t like he’d ever grow tired of numbers

 He’d never even thought to mention it until they were playing a drinking game, with a set of rules Sara seemed to be making up as she got drunker. (From what he could make out, it was between truth and dare, but without a truth option.) Somehow, Ray found himself in just his boxers, the rest of the group instantly erupting in cat calls as he revealed his body, laughing.

 After a few bashful _aw come on’s_ from Ray and a harsh _calm down, you harpies_ from Martin, the group settled down, babbling drunkenly. The only notable silent member was Leonard, staring with burning intensity at his thigh from next to him.

 “You have a tattoo,” he had asked, voice noticeably blank but eyes unflinching.

 He had shrugged a nod back, knowing he wouldn’t care about the story. Leonard never replied; instead hovering his fingertips a few inches away from the top of Ray’s thigh, not touching but letting the warmth of his fingers tickle the hair that. When Ray had told him he could touch it, his attention seemed to snap back, snatched his hand away, cleared his throat, and pointedly looked away.

 Though he’d let it go in the moment, distracted by Jax having to recite as much as he could remember from high school theater; somewhere in Ray’s drunken, fuzzy brain, he cataloged the interaction away with pleased interest.

 

○•○•○

 

 As far Sara went, it was clear the memories behind her tattoos weren’t exactly pleasant.

 It wasn’t like she hid them persay— he saw glimpses when they worked out together or when she would change in front of the group before missions. She had a lot, covering her shoulders and arms, working down her body in spurts.

 They weren’t close enough for a long time for Ray to ever ask. With Team Arrow, they operated mostly tangentially, never really paired off. On the Waverider, they didn’t get a lot of alone together, just by nature of how the group worked out. But there was a similarity between them that was comforting, loving the same people in the same city, that felt like they never needed to force their closeness, it just went unspoken.

 It was clear, after their visit to Star City 2046 that she needed to talk— talk to someone she didn’t need to explain everything to, someone clued in enough to keep up. So Ray waited for her in the gym, long before anyone got up like always, ready for her to kick his ass in boxing.

 Which she did, but it was worth it to see her shoulders loosen.

 They spared more— or rather, Ray sparred and Sara lazily dodged his hits with no effort, face getting softer with her amusement— until the glide into just leaning against the ring crept up without either of them realizing it.

 It was silent for a good bit, sharing a water before she brought it up.

 “My body wasn’t been mine for a very long time. It was a weapon, for other people.” she was pulling the tape off her knuckles, “What they put on it didn’t matter to me. It was graffiti on a wall I lived next to,”

  The full stories pittered in and out throughout various mornings together. He’d teach her the salmon ladder, she’d go through the Russian oaths scribble across her forearms. ( _An undercover job that went too long. Had to prove she was committed._ ) She added weights to his bar and explained the wreath around a gunshot wound on her stomach ( _Nyssa did after her first major field injury. A rare, simply good memory._ )

  Certain ones needed less explanation. There were tally marks across her collarbone, all aged differently— Ray didn’t have to stretch his imagination too far to guess what those were. They were crossed out with red ink, obviously the newest. Her ribs were a notepad for Arabic phrases he didn’t understand, some with English names following them. A bird on her left shoulder blade, faded yellow ink bleeding across the lines— seemingly innocuous, but Ray knew better.

  _October 8, 2014_ wrapped around her left bicep, _November 14, 2015_ around the other. Malcolm Merlyn’s handwriting she had told him, she doesn’t remember getting them. (It was right when she was resurrected before she had come back to herself.)

 “I don’t want my past to define me— to ruin what should be inherently mine. My body isn’t something to be afraid of, and it’s not theirs anymore,”

 He had asked one morning if she’d ever get them covered up. She had shrugged, gracing her fingertips across the sigil on her thigh, “I’m trying to own myself. Mistakes, regrets, and all,”

 Her hand had went to her one chest tattoo, right over her heart. Scratchy black script. _Killer_ it said, only to be crossed out in the same red from her collarbone. _Survivor._

 

○•○•○

 

 Actually, the first person to talk about their tattoos was Jax. He was the most open of all them, still with a young hope shining in the back of his eyes that had dulled in the rest of the team. His heart was friendly— he was warmed souled, no matter that happened. Leonard said once it’s what made him the best of them, and Ray couldn’t disagree.

 They’d only been on the ship for a week before Jax and him found themselves setting their work off to the side, engines long forgotten as they laughed, trading stories like old friends.

 “My mom nearly wrang my neck dry when I showed up with this,” Jax had laughed, shirt sleeve rolled up to his shoulder to expose the wolf there, “We’d made a deal when I was a kid that if I got a perfect score on my SAT’s, I could get a tattoo. Apparently, I was a dumb ass for believing that,”

  _No guts, no glory_ it scrawled beneath the bottom of he fur. It was clean, but exciting— fitting for Jax. Open, expressive but brave, honest. The corner of another splotch of ink was visible from his rolled job— _just thought it looked cool_ , he said wryly.

 To Jax, they were art— wearable art. To be seen and enjoyed, shared with others. Tests of endurance ( _this one,_ he pointed to a mountain scrape on his thigh, _was to impress a girl_ ,) and ways of expression. ( _his hometown’s zip code across his chest.)_

 “Grey never’d say it but he thinks it’s metal as hell,” he had said once, while Ray and Martin tinkered to recreate a coolant for the systems. His partner rolled his eyes in that practiced annoyance he perfected over sixty years and haunted Ray’s college experience.

 “You are certainly right, Jefferson,” he drew dryly, “I will never say that.”

 Ray hadn’t needed to ask if Martin had any— it was pretty obvious the answer was no.

 The first tattoo Martin ever saw wasn’t a choice. His grandfather, with marks worn as a symbol of oppression turned to survival— Ray understood. He remembered the first time his own grandmother sat him and Sydney down and explained the numbers above her wrist.

 They both knew the Torah; _You shall not make gashes in your flesh for the dead, or incise any marks on yourselves._ Ray’s parents raised them Reform, so it wasn’t so strict; but Martin was Rabbi, so it made sense he was more purposeful.

 “My rebellion manifested in other ways. Less permanent,” he told Ray once.

 “Like pot?” Ray had replied, grinning but horrified when Jax expanded.

 “Or a belly button piercing he never told his dad about,” Ray had laughed it off, but his mirth was quickly destroyed when Martin blushed beat red and glared with the fury of the sun at a cackling Jax.

 

○•○•○

 

 Least surprisingly, Mick was covered in ink like a kid’s sketchbook page and he was more than happy to show them off. He was not a man who suffered from modesty, peeling off his clothes anywhere to share his stories, never mixing words about the _real_ tales behind the ink.

 There were a lot that were burned off, mixed in with his scars or blending into the skin, now only smudges of black amongst rough pink. Some survived, peaking around the edges, but others were lost to time.

 Mick had gruffed him through his tattoos with performative hesitancy more than once, nearly poking Ray’s eye out with his elbow, where he could just make out a wide spiderwebs expanding over his elbow and disappearing into the scars, “Prison likes to leave its mark, Haircut,”

 There was a whole textbook of prison tattoos that he was more than happy to teach to Ray— the cobwebs illustrated how long Mick had been locked up, spindles reading like tree rings. The remnants of a watch with no hands sat atop his wrist— Ray could figure that one out. There were dots along his wrist— one for every person he’d killed.

 “And you can’t _imagine_ the ones I ain’t got anymore,” he grinned wolfishly.

 It was like he enjoyed making Ray squirm. Probably because he did.

 Others were fresher, ivy that wrapped their roping veins around his strong legs. Those were cleaner, without bleeding around the edges or the scarred infection that Mick _surely_ got with most his tattoos. Mick didn’t tell him about those, really, even though Ray did ask. He’d just tell him to shove it and leave the room to get a beer.

 Leonard had brought them up once, when Ray mentioned the odd silence while they were getting ready for bed.

 “Mick’s lost people just like was all have,” he had said, a little softer than usual, “He just does dedications a little differently.”

 So Ray didn’t press him on those anymore. He just let Mick corner him and share more horrifying implications of dots and cobwebs for the hundredth time.

 

○•○•○

 

 For a long while, he didn’t think Ray would have any. Gideon had mentioned once that they weren’t as common in the future, and the Time Masters weren’t big fans of letting individuality as it was. He had assumed Rip was typical.

 So, he was a little surprised when he noticed a few words poking out of the top of Rip’s sock while he was working in the Waverider’s undercarriage. He could only make out a little of it: _Jonas_ and the beginning of a date.

 He never asked it about it.

 

○•○•○

 

 He’d often catch Len running his fingertips across the ink on Ray’s skin, small smile on his lips. Ray’d be too busy pressing kisses into his shoulders to be anything but charmed by the way his fingertips traced the sigma and pressed the curse of the psi.

 “It’s dorky,” Ray had said once, as Leonard followed the lines.

 “Fitting, as you _are_ a dork,” he’d replied dryly, smirking when Ray scoffed and rolled his eyes. They both knew he hadn’t been insulted by the playground jabs since they’d first met, but it was still fun. Besides, his words lost their meaning when Leonard was still worshiping it.

 Leonard didn’t have any tattoos— that had surprised him when they first got together. Ray had always assumed he would had picked some up in prison like Mick, or as some form of rebellion like Jax. Instead, his skin was only covered in a smattering of scars. From his father, from fights, from jobs gone wrong… not a drop of ink in sight.

 “Not a big fan of needles,” he had answered wryly, the first time Ray had asked why before quickly distracting him and changing the topic.

 He’d given them before. Mick proudly pointed out the shakily written _fuck you_ on his stomach, Leonard weaving the tale of scratching it into his skin with a pocket knife and rubbing ballpoint ink into the cuts; then cleaning the infection out later. On the Waverider, he’d walked in on Leonard using a replicated gun to freehand an intricate never ending knot on Kendra’s ankle, with Sara waiting for her own.

 And it was obvious he liked Ray’s, always spending some extra time lavishing that spot with his tongue or tracing his fingers across the lines, or joking that he loved _bad boys_ . Leonard had an appreciation for the art, one that he showed _very_ actively (Ray was not complaining) but he could tell Leonard was holding something back about the subject, but he knew better than to push something out of him.

 They didn’t talk about it again until months later.

 “It was the one thing my mother asked us not to do,” he was the one to offer it the second time, voice softer. He sounded almost distracted, stroking Ray’s hair while they laid in bed together,   “She wanted us all to be buried together,”

 “Oh,” Ray had said because he knew this was taking a lot for Leonard to say. Instead, he snuggle closer and pressed a kiss on the corner of Leonard’s jaw.

 “I haven’t figured out how we’re going to scam you in there, yet,” his voice was lighter then, like he’d gotten it off his chest. Ray couldn’t tell if he fully realized the implications of that statement, but let his heart soar with it, “We may have to cut off your leg,”

 He nodded, reverently, “I’d cut my leg off to be buried next to Lisa,” Leonard chuckled at that, pulling him into a kiss and that was enough for right then.

 Ray asked him once if he’d ever thought about what he would have gotten. Leonard thought for a moment before stealing a marker from the lab’s white board and scribbling something on Ray’s bicep— Ray protested _this is why I don’t wear more tank tops, Leonard, I’m not a whiteboard_. It was about the size of a quarter; the top half of a square, with a tiny perpendicular line in the middle of the top, like an upside down football goal. Leonard drew it with confidence, like he’d done so a thousand times.

 “It’s thieves code,” he chewed, smirking at Ray’s annoyed scoff, “which is obsolete, but Lisa and I used to mark our warehouses it with it. Means _here’s the place_ technically but we’d leave it to let us know where was safe,”

 “And now my arm is a safe place?”

 Leonard had smirked, caressing Ray’s biceps before cradling his face, “To me it is,”

 There was a secret sentimentalism Leonard hid up his sleeve, a corniness that Ray loved to tease him about and not so secretly cherished. So while he cooed at his boyfriend’s cheesiness in the moment, they both noticed that he avoided scrubbing the symbol off for a little too long.  

 

○•○•○

 

 When Anna died, it was like every nerve in his body was overwhelmed with agony, like he could barely think about anything other than her. It consumed him for a long time, longer than he’d ever admit, but it helped him heal. It made him productive, made him work through it actively.

 When Leonard died, he was horribly, _painfully_ numb. Even after they saved the world, even after they were given some breathing room to allow him to sit in his grief, even after Martin held him as they said the Mourner's Kaddish, he couldn’t _feel_ anything. Nothing made a dent in him anymore.

 Well, except in moments of weakness when he let himself think about Leonard, try to remember his laugh or the rasp in his throat and he’d feel that same suffocating _pain_ from years earlier drown his lungs and he couldn’t _breathe_.

 He’d and Sara would meet in the cargo bay and replicate plates just to throw against the wall. Jax would steal the jumpship for them, taking him to hair banging metal bands that would shake his ear drums for hours after the left. Mick and Stein would get into screaming matches in front of him. Rip would turn the engine sounds as high as they could go.

 The noise helped him sit in nothingness.

 (When he needed to calm down before sleep, Leonard would sing to him. “ _Your brain goes so fast you need stimulus to ebb the flow. You’re like tendinitis as a person_.”)

 Then, he was stuck in the Cretaceous period for six months, alone. Trying to survive gave him a good enough distraction, worrying about the team gave hims something to look forward to. He tried to focus on the science, documenting as much of the environment as he could remember.

 But in his weaker moments… well, his weaker moments, he stared at the ink on his thigh until he could almost feel the calloused fingertips that would never touch there again. In his dreams, he couldn’t stop the invading images of Leonard’s private smile, or his warm body snuggling under his chin. Sometimes, the fire would sound like a drawn out _Raymond_ …

 When Mick showed up, a handsome younger guy with styled hair in tow, Ray was ashamed to admit he mostly thankful for the noise.

 Nate took a little bit of time getting used to— he was so unlike anyone else on the ship and his enthusiasm Ray would usually appreciate. But it was hard to allow himself to match that energy when he was trying so hard to force the memory of snark out of his ears. It was odd— it was easier to be around Amaya with her initial dismissal of him. Felt more comfortable— it was less exhausting to act a little put out than over exaggerate his smile around everyone else.

 (“ _I think you like me_ ,” Leonard said once, soon after Russia when he still chewed his words like candy, “ _because you don’t feel the need to pretend around me_ ,” Ray hadn’t denied it because it wasn’t untrue but he had replied “ _And I think you like_ me _because I make you want to stop pretending._ ”)

 Eventually, his grief melted into his everyday a bit more and he could see the fun in their new members, let himself get excited around Nate, try to coax a joke out of Amaya. Nate was a force— even more so now, that the iron in his blood cleared his hemophilia up— arm wrestling him out of his comfort zone again. Pulled him into dance circles, had him try a new dish. He was being a good friend.

 He also dragged him (and a slightly more amused Amaya) along when Nate commandeered the jump ship to get “ _tatted in the NYC, baby!”_ Before, he could never even think about getting one— the danger of internal bleeding was too risky, of course, but Nate had talked before about how _badly_ he wanted one in college. Amaya had laughed, but encouraged him to do so as Ray helped him sketch out what he wanted— a complicated, but intricate map key.

 The tattoo place had been nice— certainly nicer than the mess hall of the Waverider where the Kendra and Sara had gotten _their_ tattoos from—

 Ray had distracted himself by intensely reading a _Caring For Your New Tattoo_ pamphlet, having half the mind to slip it into his pocket for Mick later.

 “You’re grieving,” Amaya had said abruptly once they were alone, Nate wincing at every stroke of the needle behind them. She had said it with no room for argument, but her bluntness still surprised him, “but you act like you’re not,”  

 At the time, he’d looked around, eyebrows raising. This hardly seemed like the venue for this conversation, but he’d realized later he would’ve hated having this conversation anywhere.

 “Who were they?”

 (He didn’t believe in ghosts. He could juggle. He peeled the crust off his sandwiches. He waited outside the dryer for warm clothes. He loved John Denver but would _never_ admit that.)

 Ray’s tattoo was burning into the top of his thigh, “Look, I get what you’re trying to do but… if it’s all the same to you, it’s easier not to talk about him,”

 “Why?” she had looked at him— not with _pity_ , but empathy. It was odd for her to be looking at him like that, and he didn’t know what to say to that,“Doesn’t he deserve to be remembered?”

 (Amaya knew about grief, Ray would find out later, and she knew about survivor's guilt. They’d talk a lot about it in months to come, finding a understanding in the air between them. Amaya was easy to love, she was strong and wise and heroic, and he'd know all that soon but now, Amaya was just the new teammate who sort of hated him.)

 Behind them, Nate exclaimed a loud _fuck!_ drawing Amaya’s attention towards him. Which saved Ray from having to answer because well, of course he did. Leonard deserved a monument in his honor, though he would absolutely hate it— which would only make it _better_ . But even if he didn’t save the universe— he was a man, who tried so _hard_ to be good, loyal above anything else. He had been the love of Raymond’s life.

 (When Ray had thought he was going to die, Leonard had made fun of him the entire time. “ _If I’m marrying a dead man, at least he’s handsome,”_ he drew, “ _How do you want me to memorialize you? Celibacy? Oil painting? Perhaps a bust of some sort?_ ”)

 The words got caught in his throat. He just couldn’t _say_ it.  

 

○•○•○

 

 Tattoos were illegal where Zari was from— or when, rather. Which tracked, given what Ray knew about governmental dictatorships, so he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he _was_ utterly tickled by how intrigued she was. He didn’t blame her for being so curious, and it was obvious no one else did either, happily sharing their own stories.

 Jax had noticed her looking after Nate had woken them up in the middle of the night to rant about an apparition and he was hadn’t had time to change out of his night tank top. Once they’d sated Nate’s worries, Jax had smiled and began telling her about his one act of rebellion, Zari looking over the marks with a fond wonder. Ray snuggled into the blanket he’d wrapped around his shoulders and listen to the antidote again.

 The first person _she_ asked was Mick. He was sitting in the lab as Ray made some small adjustments on the gun, Zari tinkering with a program in the corner. At her question, he pulled his shirt off immediately, Zari had gagged at the action but let him go on his trip down memory lane. Ray laughed at the two of them, but excused himself with a tight throat as Mick’s finger drew closer to the _fuck you_ along his belly button.

 Ray had walked in on her and Sara talking in the kitchen one night, after a rough mission. Sara had felt the tinge of a blood lust that she hadn’t fought with in years— the first time Zari or Nate had ever seen it and Sara sequestered herself to her room for the rest of the night. He had been on his way to eat his worry away when he found them, close together, Sara softly walking Zari through the story across her shoulders, down her chest. He ducked back into the hallway, because he wasn’t a part of that.

 Nate, a lot like Mick, was more than happy to show off his ink, pulling his shirt to the side to talk her head off about his tattoo. Zari laughed as Ray supplied the full story of him taking it like a teenager, Nate insisting it’s _very normal_ to hate the experience, and _honestly_ if you don’t react then _that’s what’s weird, Ray!_

 He didn’t realize he was dreading his turn until it finally came up. George Custer had popped up on a beach along the Amalfi Coast in the seventies and Sara sent the two of them to handle it. The seventies were apparently very fond of tiny bathing suits for men and women alike— he could see Zari be sort of taken aback. He got why she never asked— she probably didn’t think Ray would have any, which he was thankful for.

 She restrained herself pretty well, (Nate had talked to here that not everyone is always so willing to share their stories. Ray’s face must have portrayed his own hesitancy more than he’d realized.) They’d made it through most of the recon with no comment, her passing off any sneaking glances as squinting into the sun, but he didn’t blame her when she broke, pointing at the lines on his skin like she’d been dying to do it all day, “What does that mean?”

 To bide a little time, he offered his arm to her for a closer look and tried to swallow the sad sort of bitterness that settled in his throat that he pushed aside to offer up with a smile that was more forced than before.

 “It’s thieves code,” he answered, tone sad and nostalgia, “Used to convey a place was safe,”

 “Used to?” she asked softly.

 “Things change,” he had said, because he wasn’t thinking about _safety_ when he had needles scratching into his bicep. He was remembering blue eyes, a wry smile, a secret softness— he was remembering a quiet voice only he was privy to, a draw that could drive him crazy in so many different meanings of the word. He was remembering _to me, it is_ and for the first time, the memories didn’t make his stomach churn, “It’s a reminder now.”

 “A reminder of what?”

 The answer to that question would come in time— eventually. Zari would get curious about the previous member Ray avoided talking about. She’s learn about Leonard from the others, from Gideon, and from Ray, eventually, when the scabs healed ever more and picking at them didn’t draw blood every time. He’d let it all out, full honesty because someone else deserved to know how they fought and fell in love and then Ray lost him. Afterwards, she’d give him a tight hug and wouldn’t say anything when he let himself really cry for the first time in two years.

 But that was a while away. Right then, he smiled a little more honestly and said, “That I’ll have to cut off a few limbs before I get buried,”


End file.
